


Don't Come The Cowboy With Me, Sonny Jim

by PepperF



Series: Tattoo AU [1]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Had Jeff Winger been asked to describe his idea of a tattoo artist, he would probably have used words like 'tough' and 'biker' and 'black leather' and 'piercings' (and, depending on how generous he was feeling, possibly 'smelly' and 'unhygienic'). Two words he would never have used were 'pretty' and 'floral'. But the woman standing in front of him, holding a needle gun, was definitely both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Come The Cowboy With Me, Sonny Jim

**Author's Note:**

> Sparked - if not entirely following - by that tattoo artist/flower shop AU prompt. I can't see Jeff owning a flower shop, tbh (well, not on purpose, anyhow). Title borrowed from the wonderful Kirsty MacColl.
> 
> Thanks to Bethanyactually for making it much better, and for remembering the darned prompt! ;)

"So what do you want?"

Had Jeff Winger been asked to describe his idea of a tattoo artist, he would probably have used words like 'tough' and 'biker' and 'black leather' and 'piercings' (and, depending on how generous he was feeling, possibly 'smelly' and 'unhygienic'). Two words he would never have used were 'pretty' and 'floral'. But the woman standing in front of him, holding a needle gun, was definitely both.

Okay, so the cutoffs were short, the top was almost indecently low-cut, and the makeup was Amy Winehouse-esque, but the flowers creeping out from under her clothing, surrounding her (awesome) cleavage and winding around her arms and legs were both pretty and colorful. And not, like, blood red or snake green, or whatever – no, they were pretty pastels. He hadn't even known you could get tattoos in pastel colors, but apparently it was a thing. And though her nails were painted red, they also had tiny pink dots all over them, making them look like little strawberries. Altogether, she looked like a bouquet – and goddamn would he like to pick her. He'd never pulled a tattoo artist before – his usual conquests tended more towards the 'Miss Colorado Springs 2008' end of the spectrum – but he was beginning to think he'd been remiss.

And she was still staring at him, waiting for his answer. "Oh! Yes. Um, this one," he said, tapping the tattoo of abstract-looking black swirls he'd found in one of her inspiration binders. "On my upper arm." He pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt, and deliberately flexed the bicep that he knew was toned and tan. He glanced up from under his lashes to see if it was having the desired effect, but she had pursed her rose red lips, and was staring thoughtfully at him.

"What do you do?" she asked, unexpectedly.

"I'm a lawyer, babe. Best in Colorado."

Usually, he got one of two reactions from women when they heard about his career: impressed, or disgusted. But the tattoo artist gave him neither. She just tilted her head to one side, and set down the needle gun on a table. "Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?" she asked, as though it was any of her business.

"Uh, yeah, actually," said Jeff, puzzled and a little annoyed.

She nodded, as if she'd expected the answer. "I see you work out," she said, eyes skating over his arms and chest, and briefly down to his abs. Ah, that was more like it.

"Five days a week," he said, pseudo-casually. "I bench-press two—"

"Why’d you pick this design?" She took the binder from him, and held it up so he could see it. "What's it supposed to do?"

"I dunno – make me look good?" He frowned at her, irritated. "These are YOUR inspiration books. If you don't like them, why do you have them?"

She looked at it, and then looked at him again. "Nope," she said, finally, and snapped shut the binder, throwing it back on the pile. "You're not getting that one."

"You know, there's this thing called customer service—"

She stepped forward, right into his personal space, and Jeff shut up quickly, not sure if he should be scared or aroused. Truthfully, he was a little of both. 

"Tell me something about yourself," she demanded. 

Jeff stared at her. Up close, her eyes were huge and very blue, fringed with long, dark lashes. And she smelled really good – like all those flowers were real or something. He wondered how far the design went, under her clothing – how much of her body was covered... 

"Well, we know you're a breasts man," she said, and he snapped his eyes up, but she looked amused rather than annoyed. "It's a start. What else? Why did you come in here?"

"I'm not drunk, if that's what you mean," he said. 

She shook her head. "I know. I wouldn't do you, if you were." She apparently caught his little internal snigger at her phrasing, and rolled her eyes. "Maybe I should give you a Beavis and Butthead tattoo."

"No, no, I'll be good," he promised. "What do you want to know?"

"What made you decide to get a tattoo? If we can figure that out, maybe we can figure out what you should have."

Jeff shrugged. "It's fashionable, and it looks cool? I mean, David Beckham, Adam Levine, Tom Hardy..."

"Okay, so you like your labels and brands, and you go for that trendy, athletic, bland look."

"Hey!" he objected.

She shrugged. "My opinion," she conceded. "You're working it, I'll give you that." Her gaze flicked over him again, a bit more appreciatively this time. Jeff's eyebrows shot up. "Look, if you're just doing it because it's hot right now, then do us both a favor and go get hennaed instead? Tattoos are for life, and I don't want to see you again in six months, asking for a cover-up job."

Jeff bristled. "I know how tattoos work. I made a decision to get one, and I'm not going to change my mind. I can go elsewhere if you're—"

"Okay, great," she said briskly. "I just needed to be sure. Now we need to work out what you're having. That one," she pointed a thumb over her shoulder at the pile of binders, "is a Maori design. Do you have any idea what it signifies, or anything about Maori culture at all?" Jeff shook his head. "Okay, then getting one would basically make you a shallow, culturally-appropriative jerkass. In my opinion," she added, dryly. "Old Man Pierce would probably do it for you, but his hand shakes, and everyone else here will turn you down."

Okay, so he wasn't getting the black swirls. "Fine. What should I get, then?" he snapped. 

She frowned at him."Dude, that's the point of this conversation – so _you_ can tell _me_ what you want."

God, this woman was annoying! "Are you doing this on purpose? I thought you were the artist?"

"And, as the artist, I'm leading you through the process of making that decision." She sighed. "Look, are you really sure you want—"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm—!" He cut himself off. She just waited, arms crossed, and finally it was too much to endure, because – okay, it had been on his mind, of course it had. It was the reason that had driven him into this stupid shop, after passing it for years on the way to his gym. "Because I'm forty," he snapped. "Happy now? It's my fortieth fucking birthday, and I want to prove something to myself – that I could still act like a frat boy, and it would be endearing and not embarrassing. I want hot women to want to have sex with me _before_ they know how much I earn. I want to believe that I'm indestructible, and that I'm the world's best driver, lover, and drinker – sometimes all at the same time. I want to be targeted by ads for Smirnoff and Trojans, not Aleve and Just For Men. I want my birthday to mean getting blackout drunk and waking up in someone else's yard, and not... okay, that still might happen, but only because it _sucks_!" He groaned, and slumped back in the chair. "Fuck," he said to the ceiling. "So this what a midlife crisis feels like."

The woman huffed a soft laugh, and Jeff raised his head to glare at her, and found she was holding out her hand. "Annie," she introduced herself. "High school dropout, former Adderall addict, awesome tattoo artist."

Jeff took her hand. It looked tiny and delicate in his grip. He drew in a deep breath, met her gaze, and shook it. "Jeff," he said. "Badass lawyer, great abs… forty."

"Own it," said Annie, approvingly. "It's not so bad." She turned away to a cupboard, and came back with two shot glasses filled to the brim with something golden, and handed one to him. "Happy birthday, Jeff."

"I thought you wouldn't do me if I was drunk," he said.

Annie clinked glasses with him, downed her shot in one gulp, and waited until he had a mouthful of tequila to say casually, "Well, if you play your cards right..." 

Jeff choked, coughed down the liquor, and stared at her. 

"Aw, am I going to have to teach the big, bad lawyer-man how to drink?" she asked, before topping up both their shot glasses and setting the bottle down. Then she turned away, a flirty sway to her hips, and grabbed a different handful of binders. "Anyway, I don't do walk-ins for a blank canvas. First you have to look at designs, then you make an appointment, and then – when you've gone away and thought it over for a while – you can come back and get inked." She dropped the binders in his lap. "Get to work."

Half an hour later, he left with research homework (ugh), an appointment card (just like a dentist), and some fresh ink: ten digits, in purple Sharpie. She wrote it on his hand, then gave him a wink. "In case you're interested in finding out where the sunflower is located."


End file.
